


Serpent's Tongue, Silver Gilt

by slipstream



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crowley is GOOD at being a demon, Dehydration, Demon Summoning, Exorcisms, Gen, Humiliation, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21685789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipstream/pseuds/slipstream
Summary: You are a sister in an order of anti-Satanic nuns.  You are doing your part to save the world.  It is a small part, but very, very important.  Mother Superior told you so.It would be certainly be more pleasant, however, if the demon manacled to a chair in your convent’s basement would quit trying to talk to you.“Pleassssse,” it hisses, voice trembling with almost convincing fear.  “You have to help me...”
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 243





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warm-up fic inspired by tumblr meta-discussion about Crowley actually being very, very good at his job:  
> https://thegoodomensdumpster.tumblr.com/post/188546226752/cheeseanonioncrisps-fuckyeahisawthat
> 
> Basically, I tied Crowley up and took away his magic just to see him talk his way out of it while suffering messily through the whole process. 
> 
> Content warnings: dehumanizing descriptions of captivity and captive from the perspective of a captor, bathroom access denial (no description of bodily fluids), captive locked in a room and left to die and all the horror that entails.

You aren’t there for the summoning itself. You aren’t needed. Not yet, anyway. Your skills, as Mother Superior always reassures you, are your own. They are valuable. They are _prized_. But they are not particularly helpful with actual spell casting. 

They are, however, perfectly suited to the peculiarities of maintaining said spell. And not specifically _un_ -helpful with the more practical preparations required. 

Sister Livia doesn’t agree. “The _problem_ ,” she growls, fuming down at the mess you’ve made fitting a masonry bit into the convent’s new electric drill. A simple task, she’d promised, not half an hour ago. But if it was so simple, why did it come with so many blessed pieces and _instructions_? “The _problem_ , dear Sister, is that you never _listen_!”

You bow your head, ashamed. 

Mother Superior will have none of it.

“No,” she says, drying your tears. Her hands are soft and dry and paper-smooth. She smiles at you. It is a very professional smile. “No, it’s not a problem at all.”

**

A banging on your door, rousing you from a deep sleep. It’s not your usual habit, to be so slothful at such an early evening hour, but if the summoning has worked, you will need to be well-rested. Ready and vigilant. Sister Clare flings open your door, face flushed and looking very excited.

“It worked!”

You blink up at her, still half-tangled in a cozy dream. “It worked?”

She ignores your stupidity, rushing to your wardrobe, yanking it open to pull out your vestments.

“Hurry, hurry! Up and dressed, quick as you can! Oh, why didn’t you have these laid out and ready _beforehand_?” 

You get tangled in your stockings. Put your robes on back to front in your haste. Normally Sister Clare would shake her head and bless your dear, beautiful head, but today she helps put you to rights with minimal clucking and no lingering brush of long, clever fingers.

“Hurry!” she says, straightening your wimple.

“Hurry!” she says, knotting the silken chord tight around your waist. 

“It worked, it worked, holy _fuck_ it worked!” she crows, dragging you down, down the stairs, through the secret door in the basement larder, and into the close muffled dark beyond. 

**

The antechamber behind the secret door is packed tight with nuns. Most are knelt in prayer, two neat regiments of holy will bent in aid of the ritual. Some sit slumped in chairs, pale-faced and clutching at bottles of water with trembling fingers, wimples unbuttoned at the throat. Over the rhythmic repetition of beatitudes hovers the buzzing excitement of holy war. 

Sister Maybeth—dark robes swaying with the pressed gravitas of command—catches sight of you and beckons you both forward with frowning impatience. 

“About time! They’re almost finished!”

She points at the door at the far end of the chamber, a heavy monolith of dark metal ringed with white chalk sacraments. It takes two sisters to wretch it open. 

The stone-walled room beyond is packed tight with swaying bodies. There’s barely room for you and Sister Clare to squeeze into your appointed places in the throng. There’s no light save the flickering glow of the candles held by the inner-most ring of your sisters. The order has been chanting for hours, its collective voice haggard. At the edge of the circle, Sister Josephine sways dangerously out of rhythm, her face pale and her fevered gaze fixed on a far point of non-space. She’s snatched out of the circle by Sister Maybeth before she can faint outright, her tome of prayers pressed into the dutifully outstretched hands of the next sister in line. Despite Mother Superior’s warnings, curiosity gets the better of you, and you strain up on tip-toe to get a better look at the seated figure in the center of the summoning circle. 

Despite Sister Clare’s gushing if profane assurances, doubt suddenly shadows your heart.

“That’s a demon?” you whisper, careful not to interrupt the ritual, now in its final stages. 

Your voice is quiet, but seemingly not quiet enough. Sister Livia scowls at you from across the circle of robed figures. She is not alone in her distraction. Sister Morey also looks up from her tome bearing all the names of the known servants of Hell. Her eyes are puffy from the thick cloud of burning incense, but her cheeks dimple with the satisfaction of a hard job done and recognized.

“ _That_ —” she hisses smugly, her voice hoarse as if she’s been shouting for hours. Which she has. Of everyone in the convent, her Latin pronunciation is without compare. A high honor, for an order that prides itself on its Latin. “—is a demon.”

“’Scuse me,” croaks the thing cuffed hand and foot to a heavy wooden armchair in the middle of the stone chamber. “I’m a what now?”

It doesn’t look like a demon. Or what you thought a demon would look like, anyway. Not that you were expecting horns and a forked tail, or cloven hooves, or any of that old-fashioned nonsense. But you certainly weren’t expecting this scarecrow body with a shock of ginger waves down to its shoulders, dark designer jacket and pants so tight you can make out each bony protuberance of its knees.

The demon is wearing sunglasses. Round ones with tortoiseshell rims. 

A shiver runs up your back as its pale face slowly turns to look at you. It’s a handsome enough face, you suppose. If you like that sort of thing.

As one, your sisters fall silent. The sudden quiet echoes eerily in the wake of their chanting. 

“ _Foulest of tempters!_ ” Mother Superior’s voice rings clear over the low hum of repeated prayer from the adjoining chamber. “By faith this order affixes you to this mortal coil!”

“ _We affix you_ ,” echoes the circle of your sisters. “ _Through faith, through word, through the bonds of our calling._ ”

The demon sways slightly in its seat, brows furrowed in confusion as it jerks ineffectively at the thick metal clamped tightly over its wrists. 

“This is a joke, right?” it says, head swiveling back and forth to take in the tiny stone room, the ring of your coven pressed tight on all sides, lit only by the flicker of handheld candles. There's something off about it's movement. Something loose and swaying, as if unfettered by the normal pull of physics. A marionette swinging loose on its strings. Its mouth twists, frets, as if torn between a frown and a grin. “Nuns, right? Always up for a laugh.” 

It makes as if to stand, as if expecting the thick metal cuffs to fall away. Your heart flutters terrifyingly in your chest.

“Having bound you in form—” Mother Superior thunders. “—we bind you in body!”

“ _By the flame of the holy ghost we bind you, in blessed iron and holy light._ ”

Seven of your sisters bend at the waist, touching their tapers to the thick white candles set at the seven points of the holding circle. The demon’s head bends to follow their movement. It sees, seemingly for the first time, the careful, dried blood geometry of the septagram encircling the chair. Its face goes very, very pale. 

“The _fuck_?” it mumbles. “What the hell is going on?”

The air in the little room seems to crackle with energy as the flame passes wick to wick seven times over. You have never seen Mother Superior look so tall. 

“By the light of faith we pin you!”

This part of the ceremony, at least, you know by heart. It’s your cue, after all.

“ _What we have lit as one_ ,” you say, your voice lost in the echoing chorus. “ _Let no one fall to dark_.”

The candles flare once, filling the room with a blinding light, before dimming to a steady, golden glow. Darkness settles once more into the corners of the room. Your sisters sag on their feet, weary beyond words. 

The demon _writhes_ in its bounds. Braces booted feet against the floor and pushes with all its might, torso arching like a snake. The cuffs hold firm. The chair holds even firmer, as it bloody well should. You bolted it to the floor yourself. Used the biggest bolts in the kit. 

“What the _fuck?!_ What the _fucking_ —!??”

It hurls its body violently back and forth, but the bolts don’t give so much as a millimeter. You smile at them, pleased, as a wave of nervous tittering washes through your convent. 

“ _Silence_ ,” Mother Superior commands. She holds up a hand, clearly exhausted by the way she leans on her cane, but her voice rings with the same clear surety she uses to call you to morning prayer. Your sisters fall quiet and still. The demon does not.

“Is this a bloody _cult_?!” it pants, the long chords of its neck flushed and straining with effort as it tries to yank its hands backwards through the cuffs. The demon’s voice is high, panicked. “Are you lot going to fucking _sacrifice_ me?!!?”

At your side, Sister Clare snorts mockingly, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. Twelve hours’ prayer and chanting seem to have left her teetering on the edge of holy euphoria. She is not the only one so affected. Sister Ira steps forward dreamily, pink tongue darting quick across her lips as if in anticipation of speech. The hollows of her face are sunken and shadowed, but her eyes are very bright, golden incense burner swinging wildly from her fist like a morning star. The demon shrinks back in the chair, as if _it_ is the one in need of protection, instead of you and your sisters. 

Sister Livia scowls, grabs Sister Ira her by robes, and yanks her back. “Don’t talk to it,” she hisses. “Foolish girl! Would you dare to take a serpent by the tongue? It _wants_ you to talk to it.” 

“I _want_!” the demon spits. Three of your sisters shrink back as the glob lands dangerously close to the edge of the holding circle. “Out of this _stupid!_ _Hhk!_ Bloody! _Ng!_ Chair!” 

Mother Superior brings her cane down hard on the floor. It’s as if a spell has been broken, the sudden snap of wood against stone sending of each of your sisters drawing back from the circle and bustling to her duty with an energy that belays the dark circles shadowing each of their eyes. And maybe it has. You remember Mother Superior’s warning, the important burden that has been laid on your shoulders. 

The demon continues to writhe and spit as the ceremonial accouterments are cleared away. It has been a long, trying day for the rest of your convent, the summoning lasting the full stretch from sunrise to sundown. Your sisters file one by one from the chamber, upstairs to a well-deserved rest. You bow to each of them as they leave, accepting their blessings, their prayers and soft brushes of fingers against your brow fresh scales in your armor of righteousness. Sister Morey lingers near the end of the procession, her proud eyes caught on the demon's struggling form.

In a moment of weakness, you catch her by the elbow. 

“Are you sure that’s…” _Him_ , you want to say, but that’s wrong. That’s incorrect. Demons aren’t a _him_ s. “The right one? The Great Tempter? The One Who Shall Deliver the End?”

Sister Morey looks at your hand on her sleeve like it’s a bit of muck on the bottom of her shoe. “Are you saying I don’t know how to do my job?”

“No, no, of _course_ not, Sister Morey. It’s only…” You glance over your shoulder at the demon, still thrashing and cursing in its bonds. “It seems awfully _insistent_.”

Mother Superior smiles thinly, one wrinkled hand reaching up to cup at your cheek. “Evil has a way of seeming many different things, dear Sister,” she says. “Remember your duty. Pay it no mind.”

With that, she follows Sister Morey through the doorway and out of the chamber. Two sisters put their shoulders to the heavy iron door and push until the blessed metal slams closed. There’s a low scrape of metal as a bolt as wide of your palm slides into place, locking you in for the night. 

With the door shut, the walls are too thick for you to hear the prayers of your sisters in the antechamber beyond, but you know they are there, two rows of pairs of two, knelt on the floor beside the door, lending their faith to the power of the circle within. 

You are not, technically speaking, alone in your vigil. It is a small comfort.

Deep in your thoughts, you do not realize the demon has fallen silent until it suddenly speaks again.

“Christ almighty,” it sighs. “So much for dessert.”


	2. Chapter 2

Your duty isn’t difficult, but it is very, very important.

You know because Mother Superior told you so.

The candles burn. The candles must always burn. If even one of them goes out, if even for a moment, then the holding circle will be drastically weakened. If the demon escapes, it will certainly return to its master. If it returns to its master, it will certainly be given a package to deliver. If it delivers the package, in eleven years the world will most certainly end.

You stare vigilantly at the candles, checking each in turn. They are the pale yellow of raw beeswax. Their soft glow reminds you pleasantly of your veiling. 

The demon is talking to you. Has been talking to you non-stop ever since the door closed several hours ago, leaving the two of you alone. 

“Look, my wife, she’ll be worried, yeah? She’ll have called the police by now. We had plans. Dinner and the symphony. Schubert. Big fan of Schubert, my wife. Not my thing, really, and the tickets cossst a small fortune, but anything for hi- _her_ , right? Anything for the woman I love.”

It trails off. You can feel it looking at you, even behind those dark glasses. You look at the ring of candles at its feet, bright and cheery in their blood-painted sigils. 

“It doesn’t have to be like this. You can let me go, I promise I won’t tell a soul. I’ll say… I-I-I’ll tell ‘em _look_ , it was all a mistake. All a big fuckup. Fell off the wagon, went on a bender. Drank myself into another gutter. _My fault_ , I’ll say. I’ll never mention you, or here, or, or _any_ of this. All my fault. I’ll take the blame. You won’t even have to—"

A candle flickers, gutters. Your eyes snap to it. You rise. Cross the room in three swift steps. Bend to examine the candle, checking it over for weakness. There are no stray currents of air that could threaten it in this close, stone-lined room. Any fault must be inherent to the candle itself. You peer closer. Whichever of your sisters lit it forgot to trim the wick first. A bit of blackened string has crumbled into the pooling wax.

You tut to yourself, fetch a fresh and properly trimmed candle from the box by your chair, and light it from the flame of the faltering candle. Once the swap is complete, you return to your post, careful not to let the long swirl of your robes knock any of the other candles astray. 

You sit. Fold your hands neatly on your lap.

It’s a while before you realize the demon is still talking. 

“ _Pleassssse_ ,” it hisses, voice trembling with almost convincing fear. “You have to help me...”

The demon prattles, whimpers, begs. The words pass in and out of your ears, unheard.

You do your duty, and you do it well.

**

“It will promise you all many things,” Mother Superior says, the night before the planned summoning. “Power. Wealth. Truth. Love. It will know your desires, the secret furnace burning at your hearts. It will tempt you. It will _lie_.” 

She stares unblinking at each of your faces in turn. Some of the sisters blush. Some tilt their heads back, nostrils flaring at the challenge. None of your small order dares look away.

“It will be very hard, for some of you. Sister will have to stand in support of sister. United in love and devotion to each other, to our convent and its holy cause. Strengthened by your surety that each is placed perfectly in her part.”

Sister Livia stiffens at your side. She doesn’t turn her head, but you feel her eyes slide towards your profile, her lips pulled back in a smirk.

You sit still and quiet in your chair, hands folded neatly on your lap. 

You are going to make everyone so _proud_. 

**

At dawn, the heavy metal door sealing the chamber unbolts with an ungodly creak of badly-oiled metal. The demon puts on a show of stirring from a fitful sleep as Mother Superior steps into the chamber. Sister Livia follows half a step behind, arms laden with the tools for the day’s interrogation. 

“Blessed morning, dear Sister. How holds the circle?” Her voice is as strong as ever, but she leans heavily on her cane, still not fully recovered from the ordeal of the previous day. 

You bow, hands clasped tight at your waist. “Blessed morning, dear Mother. I’ve just set the candles fresh. They should burn steady until just before dusk again.” 

“Oh _now_ you talk,” the demon grumbles, straightening itself with a loud pop of bone. “Was starting to think you couldn’t.” 

Mother Superior’s fond gaze hardens as she turns to face the demon. You take this as tacit permission to look upon it for yourself. It looks a bit more like a demon now, the neat waves of its hair undone by its thrashing to halo its face in a lank tangle. It winces as it shifts in its bonds. The sleeves of its blazer have pushed up just enough to expose a dark ring of bruises circling each wrist. 

“I see the demon’s spirit also holds,” Mother Superior says dryly. 

You can’t tell if the demon rolls its eyes behind its dark glasses, but the curl of its upper lip is certainly far from polite. “And a good morning to you, too.”

Sister Livia makes the sign of the cross. A mistake. The movement draws the demon’s attention. 

“Oi, sister! You got a key for these cuffs anywhere in there?” It jerks its chin towards the cloth-wrapped bundle of instruments. “Could go for a piss. Maybe a cup of tea, after. Really start the day off right.” 

Its tone is light, almost joking, but it shifts in the seat with visible discomfort, lips pulled back in a rabbit snare grin to bare glistening teeth

Sister Livia’s sour face twists further in disgust. You wonder that it hasn’t yet stuck that way.

The day watch arrives then, puffing and carrying a second armload of tools.

“Sorry I’m late, dear Mother,” she says breathlessly. The long metal rods—some thick as your wrist, others thinner than a pencil—jangle discordantly as she bows. “I was—"

Sister Livia snatches the rods with a huff. “’But they all alike began to make excuses,’” she mutters.

The demon cocks its head. “Luke, isn’t it? The Parable of the Great Banquet. Kind of an arsehole, Luke. Real hard-on for throwing sinners in the fire. What was it he said about those who weren’t with him?”

Sister Livia’s face blotches unflatteringly. Mother Superior turns to you, a cautious, curious glint in her eye. 

“Well, dear Sister? What _does_ Luke say?”

You snap to attention, flush with embarrassment. “Forgive me, dear Mother. Ah… What does _who_ say?”

Mother Superior beams at you with pride.

**

There’s a sour, unpleasant smell when you return at sundown, cutting through the lingering sage and incense smoke from the day’s interrogation. Sweat and something sharper, something distinctly alkaline. You wrinkle your nose.

“Don’t be precious, dear Sister,” sniffs Sister Ira. “We’ve been smelling it since teatime.” She and Sister Clare have the shorter evening watch. Neither shares your particular talent of ignorance, so they have been pulled from the prayer rotation and set as a pair against the demon’s influence. 

Sister Clare gestures over her shoulder at the demon, cheeks a lovely flush of pink. “It pissed itself, can you believe it? In front of Mother Superior and everything.”

She speaks in a scandalized whisper, but it’s not like there’s very far for the words to carry.

“Oh, like you’d do any better,” the demon hisses. It still jerks restlessly at its bonds, but with much less force than yesterday. Long red welts, raised and puffy like freshly-blistered burns, crisscross its loosely-clenched fists. “I’ve been s-s- _stuck_ in this chair all _fucking_ day! Sorry my kidneys didn’t get the memo.”

The words pass in and out of your ears. Not so, Sister Ira. She straightens, chin thrust forward and eyes dark.

“Seems it holds its tongue as well as it holds its bladder,” she says coolly, back to the holding circle. “No wonder Sister Livia saw fit to set it a lashing.”

“Jealous it wasn’t you?” the demon sneers. “I know all about you nuns. I’ve seen films.”

Sister Clare’s eyebrows jump high on her forehead. She looks at you, one hand raised daintily to cover her soft mouth. 

It’s very warm in the little room. Warm and airless. You have already started to perspire beneath your dark robes. You will have to be sure to take small, periodic sips from the water bucket, lest you faint. Not too many sips, though. Not so many that you have to use the shallow steel bedpan left behind for emergencies.

Even the demon seems to be feeling the heat, a thin sheet of sweat filming its forehead, its coloring sallow. The ginger waves—so lustrous, yesterday—stick dark to its brow. 

Strange, to think a thing forged of hellfire could suffer in such a human way.

You bid your sisters good night, bowing to each in turn. The silken chord at your waist is knotted badly, liable to slip. Sister Clare pays it no notice.

A thought drifts through your dear, beautiful head, clamoring to be heard. You brush it aside and set yourself on your stool in the corner.

As soon as the bolt slides shut, the demon leans forward and starts whispering frantically. 

“You have to help me get out of here. These people, they’re _crazy_. They jumped me on the street. Threw me in their van. You weren’t there, I know. I’d remember somebody like you, jumping out of an alleyway, big brown sack in your hand. Very striking features, from what I can see of ‘em. You came in late to this whole thing, yeah? Just the night guard. Just doing your job. I know all about that, trust me. Nobody’d blame you. Everyone would understand. Especially if it was you who helped me get out of here, helped me get _home_ , where I belong.”

It hisses at you for a long, long time. You sit still and very straight, hands neat in your lap. 

“Please let me go, I’m begging you. I’m not whatever you think I am. Just let me go _home_. Please, _please…_ ”

You think about Sister Clare. The poorly done knot at your waist. 

Unbidden, some of the demon’s words slip in. 

“I don’t mean to be crass,” it says, tone bossy, a little stuck up. “But you _did_ think through the toilet situation, didn’t you? Back when you all were planning your little kidnapping? I’m sure you didn’t forget. You’re all too smart to forget. Gotta be smart, right? To understand the Word of God. Lot of fine print in the Word, from what I remember. Lot of clauses. ‘Inasmuch as you have done unto the least of these, you have done unto me,’ and all. Bet that’s why they picked you to sit night watch. Smart enough not to be tempted by the big bad demon bolted to the chair. Smart, silent type. _Real_ big on candles. It’s a match made in heaven.”

Candles, candles. Long white lovely candles, thick at the base, tapered on top, crowned in shimmering golden fire.

“You can leave the ankle ones on, not going anywhere with those in place. Or just one of the wrist cuffs, yeah? Just enough so I can unzip and point. I promise I’ll be quick about it. Who’s ever to know?”

You watch them burn. Shrink. 

“It’s cruel, and fucking _pointless_ , what you’re doing to me. I’m not some stupid demon you can just chain up and have fun occult times with, all right? I’m a _person_. I’m a fucking _person!_ ”

You wonder if you could sneak one back up to your room. 

“Look, look, right, I’ve been thinking. Got an idea. You don’t even have to unshackle me, see? Nuns are like nurses. ‘S all clinical. Part of your calling, helping the helpless and all that. You unzip me, gimme a, a _bottle_. That bucket over there. _Anything_. I’ll go on the floor, if that’s what you want. Demon piss probably does wonders for pentagrams, yeah? All sorts of spooky magic in there. J-just—”

You blink. Shake your head. Your thoughts have wandered dangerously. The candles have burned low over the last few hours. 

You stand, fetch replacements from the small stash of supplies. The candle stubs are so close to the floor that you have to kneel to pass the flame from the old wick to the new. The demon watches you work from its position bent double in the chair, panting heavily between clenched teeth. 

“Why are you doing this?” it whimpers, tips of its fingers bone white where they claw at the wood of the armrests. A shudder runs along the long length of its spine. “I’ve done absolutely _nothing_ to you. You’re _nuns_ , for Christ’s sake! How the hell does this serve God’s purpose? Are you fucking getting _off_ on this, you stupid, _sssssssssstupid_ —!”

You stand. Brush the dust and flaking blood from your robes. You will have to ask Mother Superior in the morning if any of the sigils also need refreshing. 

“ _God_ ,” the demon groans, low and wet, like it’s choking on the word. Black snakeskin boots twist and kick futilely against the stone floor. “Oh god, oh god _god_ FUCK!”

You sit on your stool. Cup your hands tight over your ears. Keep your gaze fixed on the freshly burning candles. 

You think of Sister Clare. Of the dawn that will eventually come. 

The ammonia smell is stronger for a little while, but eventually you quit noticing it. 


	3. Chapter 3

Most of the fight seems to have gone out of the demon by the start of your next watch.

You see it startle slightly as the door opens, hands clenched into loose fists in the cuffs, only to slump as far as the chair will let it when it sees your silhouette. 

“Still no tea service, eh?” it rasps. “Guess I can see th’ logic. Nothin’ in, nothin’ out, amiright?”

Its lips are cracked, swollen. It has stopped sweating, despite the heavy heat of the room. 

You turn your back to it. Fix your attention on the proud arch of Sister Clare’s nose. 

“It keeps asking for water,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’d think a demon would be a more exciting conversationalist.”

It doesn’t ask you for anything the whole of your watch. It mumbles, from time to time, but the words are indistinct, seemingly directed at someone not physically in the room. There are long stretches of silence where—if you didn’t know better—you’d think it was asleep. You chew at your lips as you change the candles, retreating quickly to the safety of your stool as the demon jerks straight up in the chair with a pained grunt, legs twitching. It’s a long time before it settles again. You watch it tremble and whimper as the long muscles of its limbs cramp over and over, clutching at the symbol of your order as you remember your prayers. 

In the morning, it is Sister Livia who steps through the door first.

“Stand up!” she barks. “Can’t you see Mother Superior is in need of the seat?”

You can. Mother Superior sways dangerously as she steps over the low threshold, even with Sister Jessamine supporting her by the elbow. She shoots you an anxious look as Mother Superior settles onto the stool with a wheeze of exhaustion. 

“The interrogation’s not going well, I heard,” whispers Sister Yvette conspiratorially as you wash your face in the common bath, readying yourself for your well-deserved rest. 

You ignore her. Not so, Sister Marie, braiding her hair at the sink on your left. 

“Aye. You could certainly say that again.”

“How much longer do you suppose this will go on?” Sister Yvette grumbles. “I’ll admit it was very exciting at first but all this praying on stone floors is _hell_ on the knees.”

“Dunno. But I was walking by the kitchens earlier and I overheard Sister Livia say—“ 

She pauses, glancing sideways at you before shrugging dismissively. 

“Sister Livia thinks this is all a waste of time. That we ought just exorcise the thing and be done with it. ‘Can’t have a delivery without a deliverer,’ she said.”

The face that looks back at you from the mirror as you brush your teeth is still, expressionless. You tuck yourself into bed, a folded cloth tied around your eyes to keep out the sun.

When at last you drift off into sleep, you dream of a white, endless desert. 

The gossip has not quelled by evening meal. The dining room is filled with whispers and meaningful glances. You do your best to ignore them, setting to your own meal in pious silence. 

On the far side of the long table, two of your sisters sit comforting a visibly shaken Sister Jessamine.

“I don’t think I can do it anymore,” she says, dabbing at her face with her napkin. “It’s just so _awful_ to look at.”

“Well don’t look at it, then, silly,” says Sister Maybeth, her gentle smile at odds with the sergent’s bark she has adopted when commanding the prayer rotation. “Your job is just to mind the _candles_ , remember? Leave minding the demon to Mother Superior and Sister Livia.”

“It’s easy for you to say,” sniffs Sister Jessamine. “You’re not _in_ there. You don’t have to—have to _listen_ to it, day after day.” 

“Tch!” clucks Sister Marie, once more at your left. “As if it didn’t holler loud enough to be heard from Leeds.” She winks at you conspiratorially over her tea. You force a thin, polite smile. 

“What does it say, anyway?” asks Sister Poppy, leaning across the table in unabashed curiosity. “Does it blaspheme our Lord? Speak curses on our holy order? Has it… has it tried _tempting_ you yet?” 

Several of your sisters look up, curious to hear her answer. Across from you, Sister Morey keeps her gaze fixed on the tabletop and makes the sign of the cross. 

Sister Jessamine swallows heavily. Draws a deep breath.

“It says… I-i-it s-s-says…”

Her face crumples unattractively as she bursts into tears. 

Sister Poppy rolls her eyes and turns impatiently towards you. “ _Well_ , dear Sister? You’ve been down there with it. Surely _you_ can tell us.”

You shrug, focus intent on the last of your mash. 

You cannot tell what it is your duty not to hear.

A scraping of chairs and benches announces Mother Superior’s arrival. She bids you all to sit again with a trembling wave of her hand. Sister Livia leads her wordlessly to her seat at the head of the long table and disappears into the kitchen to fetch her tea. 

Your stomach churns uneasily as you watch Mother Superior’s eyes droop closed. Nearly gone is the straight-backed, stiff-shouldered woman who veiled you. The head of your order seems to have aged twenty years in the past few days, her wrinkles deeper, an unmistakable tremor in her hands where they sit folded atop the head of her cane. You marvel at the demon’s power, to have had such an effect on a woman so strong in the faith. 

Sister Livia returns with Mother Superior’s tea service set out on its customary antique silver platter. Mother Superior stirs as the steaming cup is set before her, but she offers no thanks to her second in command, ice-grey eyes fixing immediately on the still-sniffling Sister Jessamine. 

“What is wrong, child?”

Sister Jessamine wipes roughly at her tear-stained cheek with the sleeve of her robes. “Nothing, Mother Superior.”

Mother Superior’s face hardens into a familiar, stern expression. “Do not speak to me as the serpent did to Eve, child. To lie is to betray your oath to our order.” 

You take a large gulp of your own tea. 

Sister Jessamine flushes pink. “My apologies, Mother Superior,” she sniffs. Sister Maybeth pats her encouragingly on the back. “It’s just…”

“Yes?”

“It’s just, I can’t stop thinking about… _it_.” She draws in a long, shuddering breath. “How it begs for... _You_ know. And the _noises_ it makes when you…” She trails off, eyes welling with fresh tears. 

“Oh child, child...” Mother Superior leans carefully across the table to pat at her hand, which only draws a louder chorus of sobs from Sister Jessamine. “Do not think that you are weak to hear its pleading. Gain strength from the purity of your empathy, that the demon would see at it and pluck at it so.”

“It’s a wretched thing,” Sister Jessamine sobs into her napkin. “A wretched, _horrible_ thing.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Sister Poppy shudder in horrified ecstasy. 

Eventually Sister Jessamine pulls herself together and agrees with Sister Maybeth’s suggestion that she leave her duties as the day watch for the time being to join the ranks of the prayer rotation. When Mother Superior asks for a volunteer to take Sister Jessamine’s place during the next day’s interrogation, half a dozen hands shoot into the air. Sister Poppy's is the fastest. 

At her customary seat at the right hand of Mother Superior, Sister Livia frowns. 

“You are so weary from today’s labors, dear Mother,” she says slowly, carefully. “And the demon has offered no honest answers to your questions. _Surely_ it is far too dangerous to continue—”

“There is nothing _safe_ about holy war,” interrupts Mother Superior, chin thrust forward and eyes flashing. As one, you and the rest of the table turn fix your gazes on your plates. “And we are uniquely positioned to gain direct knowledge from our enemy. Would you have humanity charge into Armageddon with no foreknowledge of the danger that is to come?”

“I… _No_ , Mother Superior.” It is unlike Sister Livia to sound so demure. So soft and humble. 

It does not suit her. 

There’s a long stretch of silence, broken only by the soft clink of china as Mother Superior takes up her cup and sips at her tea.

“Hm,” she tuts. “Too bitter as always, dear child.” 

**

The demon doesn’t so much as twitch in the chair as the heavy door scrapes open. Only sits there, knees wide and head lolled to one side, exposing a long throat prickled with dark stubble, its chest rising and falling in short, shallow pants. 

You frown. You’re not certain why. Something about this little scene is wrong. Not as it should be.

Your gaze lowers. You cry out in alarm. 

“The candles! Why haven’t you changed out the _candles_?”

The candles sit low as tea-lights in the center of their sigils. Sister Clare and Sister Ira—huddled together in the corner—look up with a start, their faces flush. 

“Oh shit!” cries Sister Clare, pressing a pale hand to her pretty mouth to stifle her giggles. “Ira! The candles! We forgot all about—!” 

Sister Ira turns to blink dumbly at the circle, which only makes Sister Clare laugh all the harder. 

She is holding Sister Ira by the hand. 

You do not bow as they take their leave. 

You do not think about the glittering light in Sister Clare’s eyes as you change out the candles, scraping up the hardened pools of wax that have blurred the crisp points of the septagram. Do not dwell on the dimpled flush of her cheeks, the way her fingers interlaced so neatly with Sister Ira’s.

Your heart hammers as you fetch the silver knife from Sister Livia’s bundle of tools and draw it quickly across your left palm. You have to make tight, painful fists to keep the wound from clotting as you carefully draw back over the sigils. What if Sister Ira’s carelessness allowed the circle to weaken enough for the demon to escape? You sneak glances at it each time you milk a fresh gush of blood from your palm, but the demon never stirs. 

It takes nearly an hour, but at last your job is done. You fetch a clean length of linen from the tool kit and bind your wound. It aches. You try not to dwell on it. 

You lower yourself onto the little stool with a sigh. Fold your hands neatly in your lap, spine straight as a church pew. 

The demon does not move.

The candles burn tall and clear. 

All is still and quiet in the chamber. Quiet but for the sound of your own breathing. It is unsettlingly loud. You suck in a long breath and hold it, just to sit for a while in true silence.

It brings you no peace.

You blow the breath out again in a huff, only to rise from the stool in a panic as the candle closest to you flickers. Gutters.

 _Ba-boom_ , pounds the blood in your ears.

_Ba-boom._

The flame rights itself again. 

You glance guiltily towards the center of the holding circle. The fresh blood on the sigils has dried, the candles burnt halfway, and still not a sound, not a twitch from the demon. Even the blood trickling from its cracked lips is still, dried in a dark line down its throat.

You think about Sister Jessamine, crying at the table. Unable to repeat the terrible things she had heard in this very room.

You frown. 

“ _Demon._ ” Your voice cracks like a whip in the still air, startling you back half a step. You didn’t mean to speak. You wring your hands together in a rough approximation of prayer, heart hammering louder than ever, but the body in the chair remains still as stone. You have to squint to note the sluggish rise and fall of its chest. 

You retreat back to your stool. Watch the candles burn another quarter-inch. The cut on your palm burns beneath the linen bandage. 

The inside of your head feels very strange.

You rise. Take two purposeful strides towards the circle. Clear your throat.

“Are you awake, demon?” You bite your tongue. A foolish question. Evil does not sleep, let alone deserve the formalities of polite conversation. “Why do you no longer speak?”

You wait attentively for an answer, but none comes. 

This is what it wanted, wasn’t it? That first night, and the second. Your words, your attention. Its stillness now feels like a mockery. 

Your brow furrows. 

Sister Livia has left her collection of blessed whipping rods propped in a far corner. You fetch one.

The rods are long enough that you can stand safely outside of the holding circle and still easily reach the being at the center. It takes two sharp prods to the chest with the blunt end of the broom handle-thick rod to get any response from the demon. Its head rolls forward with a groan.

You prod it again. 

Its mouth, closes, opens. Its lips are smeared red from the re-opened cracks on its lips. “Zzzer’uh? Auzzzzz…”

You grimace in distaste at the quiet, insect-like buzz of its infernal speech. You tap its sternum with the tip of the rod in warning. “Speak up. I cannot hear you.”

It moves its lips. There’s a low, dry hiss of air, but no words that you can understand. 

You withdraw the rod, frowning in thought. The demon is _trying_ to speak, that much is clear. It _must_ speak, if Mother Superior is to gain the knowledge she needs to save the world.

Perhaps this form it holds is not its own, but that of an unsuspecting mortal. It would certainly explain its unexpected appearance—less handsome, now, with its urine-crusted pants, unnaturally bent fingers, and sickly, parchment yellow skin stretched tight over the sharp points of its shadow-haunted face.

You remember your grandfather, in those last days in hospice. The way sound echoed surreally off the linoleum tiles as his nurse explained that once he stopped taking food or liquids, they would only wet his mouth enough to make him comfortable. 

You do not know what happens to a demon if its human vessel dies. 

The water in the drinking bucket is stale but cool. You eye the ladle warily. The thought in your head is foolish, but certainly not so foolish as _that_. 

Eventually, you settle on wrapping multiple strips of bandaging linen around and around the blunt end of the rod, which you dip into the bucket. It’s a rough excuse for a sponge, but it will have to do.

The demon gasps brokenly when you press the soaking rags to its chin, head jerking back sharply as if seared by a brand. The muscles in your arms tremble as you fight to keep the rod in balance, chasing after the demon’s mouth as it struggles with a last burst of strength, knocking its ridiculous sunglasses to the floor in the process. 

“For heaven’s sake,” you mutter. “It’s _water_ , you fool. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

You drag the wet rags roughly back and forth across its lips, and eventually it catches on, opening its mouth to suckle weakly at the dripping fabric. 

Your stomach twists as you watch the muscles in its thin face tremble, jaw working feebly to ring the last of the moisture from the linen. The demon’s eyes are sunken deep in their bruised sockets. Its dark lashes flutter as it struggles to open its eyes. 

A wretched, horrible thing, indeed.

It whines low in its chest when you pull the linen-wrapped rod away, only to sob and tremble when you press the freshly re-soaked tip back to its lips. You repeat the process half a dozen times, each time staring with sickened fascination as it sucks with the whimpering desperation of a newborn pup. 

At last, the demon gags, shuddering, and turns its head at the offer of more to drink. It slumps forward, held upright only by its bounds as its gut clenches in a sudden cramp. You watch it twist and moan as it fights to keep the water down, blinking slowly.

You will be terribly annoyed if all your work has been in waste. 

Eventually, the demon’s breathing settles, its muscles unclenching. It straightens sluggishly, head lolling to rest on the high back of the chair. 

You hope you have not done something to make Mother Superior doubt your oath. 

“Thank you,” it gasps, snapping you from your thoughts. “Thank you…”

It opens its eyes. Looks at you. You look at it. 

The gratitude in its yellow, yellow eyes sickens you. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: References to alcoholism in this chapter.

In the morning, the door groans open to reveal Sister Poppy, standing alone. 

“No interrogation today,” she says primly, hands folded neat beneath her breastbone. “Mother Superior isn’t feeling at all well.”

You are more than eager to leave this close, foul-smelling room, have been silently reciting your benedictions for the past half-hour so as not to give the demon the satisfaction of seeing you pace, but something in her tone gives you pause. “And Sister Livia?”

Sister Poppy cocks her head and smiles, thin and sickeningly sweet. “She is tending to her, of course. She trusts in me to do what is to be done.”

You frown. The demon is silent now, yellow eyes at last slipping shut in a pitiful imitation of sleep after, but its unholy presence still fills the room behind you, electric-hot against your back. “She trusts you to stand alone?”

Sister Poppy sniffs, smile vanishing. She is shorter than you by a good three inches, but she manages to tilt her head back at just the right angle to peer at you down her long, sharply upturned nose. “Dear Sister,” she says, sweet, sweet, as if you were a child too young to know its place. “Surely you are not so proud as to think you _alone_ are graced with the needed virtues.” 

Your cheeks flush hot. The heat does not fade as you ascend the stairs to the sleeping quarters, nor as you strip off your stinking robes to cleanse yourself with water and rewrap your stinging hand. Even the practiced ritual of your bedtime prayers is not enough to cool your spirit. You lay in bed for hours, awake and burning, jaw aching from the tight clench of your teeth.

You’re still rubbing the puffiness from your eyes when you report once again for duty. Sister Maybeth tuts sympathetically as she unbolts the door, a soft, cloying noise that makes the fire in you burn all the hotter, roaring so loud in your ears that you can barely make out the raised voices coming from within the chamber. 

“—would you have us _do_ , then? Stay _here_?”

“Of course not, I’m only saying—" 

Sister Clare looks up, startled, as you push open the door. 

“ _What?_ ” she snaps. Her pale cheeks are rosy with emotion, her dark eyes bright. Your breath catches in your throat. Behind her, Sister Ira rubs the heel of one hand roughly across her cheek, smearing the dampness there. Her wimple frames the dark mottle of her own flushed face unflatteringly

A deep, shameful part of you flares with hope. Perhaps…

The fire is very hot in your cheeks as you bow. “Good evening, dearest sister.”

Sister Clare glances towards the holding circle, then the open door just beyond your shoulder, brow furrowed. She blinks. “Oh. Yes. Took you long enough, didn’t it?”

Her tone is distant, cold. As cold as the ice quenching the fire of your cheeks. 

Sister Ira brushes suddenly past you in a flurry of skirts. The proud arch of Sister Clare’s profile turns immediately to follow her, expression softening. “Ira,” she calls. Sister Ira quickens her pace. Sister Clare’s dark eyes round in panic. “Wait—!”

The rush, one after the other, through the door. Sister Jessamine watches them go, shaking her head. Closes the door without so much as a glance in your direction and bolts it fast with a dull, heavy ring of metal.

It’s like you’re not even there. 

The ice spreads through your face, down your throat. Along your spine and up again though your belly, into your chest. It forces you upright, standing you up straight and tall. You feel sharp with it, your edges brittle and jagged. The sound of your breath is very loud in your ears. 

“Lover’s quarrel,” croaks a small, broken voice. “Shame.”

Your head snaps towards the demon in shock. For a moment, you had forgotten it completely. 

The demon blinks slowly, robotically. As if struggling to remember how. Its yellow eyes are fever bright, burning like coals in the dark hollows of its sockets. The candles at the rim of the holding circle burn flicker lazily. 

“S’bound to happen, though. Stressful situation and all. What with the kidnapping, and the imprisonment. And the torture Stuff like that puts a strain on the best relationships.”

It’s been two nights since the demon said more than two sensible words together. Its speech catches you unprepared, cuts through you sharp as a knife. You stare at it, frozen in place.

“Cute couple,” it rasps, smiling at you crookedly. “Hope they can work through it.” 

Your face clenches. Contorts. You turn away from it, breath tight in your chest, and reach up with icy fingers to press the traitorous flesh of your cheeks and brow until they are once again smooth, expressionless. Your heaving breast proves more difficult to sooth. Your mouth is thick with bile, sour and cloying. 

The ladle rattles in your grip as you bend over the water bucket. The water has been changed since last you drank from it, but the stale taste still lingers on your tongue like a ghost. You close your eyes, force yourself to take another drink, sipping the cool liquid slow, slow between your lips until you have no choice to swallow again or be drowned. 

The ladle thunks heavily against the bottom of the bucket when you’ve finished. You are calmer. Your hands have stopped shaking. You dare to risk a glimpse over your shoulder. The demon is watching you intently, that sickly, placating grin still frozen in place. Its pallid skin is a slick yellow in the candlelight, the once-handsome face lost beneath layers of dried-on sweat and grime. A fine tremor runs through its limbs, as if struggling to hold itself absolutely still. 

For some reason, you think about the mice you sometimes find in the pantry, back legs crushed and useless in the snap trap, whiskers trembling and chest heaving as the light from the kitchen illuminates their useless struggle for freedom. 

The tall, rigid feeling fills you once more. You look back down at the bucket. The water within glitters black in the gloom, distorting your reflection. 

“You are thirsty, demon.”

It is not a question, but you are not surprised when the demon chooses to treat it as one. “Yes.” 

_Don’t talk to it_ , hisses an echo of Sister Livia in your ear _. That’s what it wants. Foolish, stupid, stubborn…_

You pick up the ladle. Swirl it lazily through the water. Your reflection vanishes. 

You draw in a deep, steadying breath. Consider your words carefully. 

“The gospel says that those who drink the waters given the Lord will never thirst.”

The demon shifts audibly in its bounds. “Good for them.”

You draw up a ladleful of water and let it spill back into the bucket. “The gospel _also_ says it is good to wait in _silence_ for salvation.”

You turn to the demon expectantly. Its smile has faded, its brows furrowed in confusion. 

“The hell duzzit say that?”

“Psalms,” you sniff. You suppose it thinks its very funny, questioning you on scripture. You suppose—

Your hand grips tight around the ladle. You mustn’t let yourself get distracted. You draw up another ladleful of water, lift it high, high. The demon’s eyes track the movement with the intensity of a viper, the sharp point of its tongue darting out to wipe futilely at its pale lips. It hisses as you tilt your hand to let the water spill carelessly back into the bucket, splattering fat droplets across the floor. 

You lick your own lips. Your heart thuds in your chest. You feel dizzy. Too big, somehow, for your own skin. “I will give you another drink,” you say. “ _If_ you promise to keep quiet.” 

You expect an eager nod, or perhaps a sneer, some quip about the irony of a nun making such a meager deal with a devil, but instead the demon frowns, head cocked to the side as if processing the rules of a very complicated game. 

“Thought you were supposed to be the quiet one.”

“I am.” 

“Thought you had a special… _virtue_ for not listening.” 

“I do.”

The demon’s lips pull back in another rabbit’s snare grin. “Still tired of hearing me talk myself hoarse?”

“If you prefer,” you say. “I can not listen to you until you can’t talk at all.” 

You watch the gears turn in its head as the demon thinks. After a long, pensive moment, it nods. 

“I promise.” 

The demon doesn’t blink as it watches you fix another bundle of bandage linen to the end of an interrogation rod and dip it into the bucket. It leans forward as far as its binds will let it, mouth open in anticipation as you stretch the dripping wad of cloth across the holding circle. 

Curiosity makes you pull the rod back out of reach at the last possible moment; the demon lunges forward, teeth snapping shut on nothing but air. You watch, fascinated, at the rapid cycle of its expression. Confusion. Betrayal. Anger. 

You tut at it chidingly. 

The demon’s eyes flare bright. The tendons in its long neck bulge. The ring of pale candles gutters violently, as if caught in a storm. 

“Fuckin’ get _off_!” it snarls. “Fucking sadist. Come and fucking stab me in the _tit_ with it next why don’t you?”

It thrashes violently in its bonds, seemingly indifferent to the pain of its oozing, re-opened wounds. The wood of the chair creaks ominously. There’s no question, now, exactly what kind of thing your order has trapped with words and blood and holy light.

You take half a step back, clutching the rod tight to your chest, then another. 

The demon’s yellow eyes go round in absolute, abject panic.

“ _No_ ,” it moans. “Nonononono, _wait_! Don’t…”

It sags heavily in its bonds, limp as a rung-out rag as the brief surge of strength leaves as suddenly as it arrived. 

“I’m _sorry_ , I shouldn’t have… _Please_!”

You set the rod upright in a corner. Take your seat on your stool, hands in your lap. 

“You _can’t_ , I’m _sorry_! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _please,_ I’m so, _sssssooo_ —"

You are doing your part to save the world. It is a small part, but very, very important. Mother Superior told you so. Your duty is to watch. Your duty is not to listen.

For a moment, you forget all of it, eyes slipping closed as the sound of the demon’s sobs wash over you.

Its pleas become increasingly repetitive and nonsensical as it drags itself further and further towards exhaustion. How strange, to hear a demon’s breath go ragged with hiccups. 

It is a long time before the demon is at last still and quiet. You wait, watching the candles burn, the pale wax pool across the floor. 

Years of service to the convent have taught you how to silence your steps on stone floors. The demon startles with seeming genuine surprise when you press the dripping rags once more to its lips. Its yellow eyes snap questioningly, distrustfully to your own. 

“ _Promise_ me,” you command. The holy iron tingles faintly in your hands. You press it hard against the barrier of the demon’s teeth, tilting its head back, back. 

The demon’s eyes slip closed. It shudders, shoulders sagging. You watch its breath hitch in its chest, its broken fingers curl and tremble. 

An eon seems to pass before it nods. Slowly. Carefully.

Silently. 

The lines of its body shift. Become slinking, demure. Like a snake caught at the end of a stick, turned over on the grass so its long belly shines pale in the sun. 

The brittle ice of your bones slowly warms as you watch it sink white teeth into the dripping rags and suck them dry again. 

**

“Y’know what’s… What’s _ironic_ , ‘bout this whole fuckin’ messssss?”

The demon sways sluggishly in its seat, voice thick, half-drunk. The water bucket in the corner sits nearly empty, a dark line of spilled water forming a thick trail back and forth between it and the holding circle. The front of the demon’s shirt is equally soaked, the wet fabric clinging to the slight curve of its hard, swollen belly. 

You scowl at the evidence of your hubris and shift on your stool, hands clenched so tightly together that your white knuckles crack. Your anger is a tangled, ever shifting thing, sharp-toothed and coiling ever tighter around your chest. 

You glare in pointed silence at a non-point in space several feet beyond the calcium-streaked stone wall. The demon takes no notice. It should not surprise you that the demon has immediately failed to keep its side of the bargain, but it does. That is because demons are liars, and you are an absolute fool. 

“It’sss not th’ first time in my life I’ve th-thought, ‘If I don’t get somethin’ to drink, I’m gonna fuckin’ _die_.’” 

It laughs, high-pitched, hysterical. A mistake. It blanches, coughs, lean torso arcing suddenly forward as it gags and vomits clear liquid onto the floor. . 

You lift your eyes briefly to the heavens. Curled hands claw feebly at the chair’s splintering armrests as the demon shudders and gags, dribbling another mouthful of bile-tinged water onto its shoes. The noises it makes are ungodly

“Don’t waste it,” you say. Then, in case your meaning is unclear, “You won’t be getting any more.”

The demon swallows heavily, its breath disgustingly nasal in the stale, still air. “Figured ‘smuch.” A long line of drool hangs shining from its lips. It tries to slurp it up without success. Heaves again. 

Eventually it slumps back in the chair, exhausted and hopefully empty. It pants for breath, head resting heavily on the back of the chair, knees akimbo. You relish in the all-too-brief silence. 

“Oh yeah,” it chuffs, flapping one blood-stained hand weakly in its cuff. “Jus’ like th’ old days.” It grins widely, rolling its head in your direction, and winks. 

At least when the demon was pretending to die of thirst, it was quiet for a while. 

“You much of a drinker, sister?” it asks, ignoring your stone-faced silence. “Don’ look like much of one, but looks can be deceiving, right? Everyone’s got their indulgences, their little sins. Even nuns. Know my fair share of holy folk preaching teetotalism only to go hard on the communi—oh _Ch-christ!_ ” Its face contorts violently as it shudders in the grip of another full-body spasm, gurgling as it fights to keep down what’s left of the precious water. 

You think about your grandfather, the sweat, yeasty smell of his breath as he pressed a goodnight kiss into your hairline, whiskers scratching rough across the curve of your brow. The wet, animal noises echoing down the hall in the dark as his liver and stomach turned themselves inside out. The heavy clink of bottles as you carried dragged the bin to the curb. 

You rush to think of something, _anything_ else. 

“What’s your name, anyway?” Yellow eyes peer questioningly at you through dark clumps of tangled hair. “Must have one. Names’re important. Shape who you are. Who people expect you to— _nnk_!.”

The demon’s back arches, teeth snapping together on the rest of the thought. Its jaw is clenched so tightly you can see the individual tendons in its cheeks. 

A scrap of memorized scripture at last floats up from the murky depths of your conscious. 

_Oh Lord,_ _I cry to you. Make haste. Give ear to my voice…_

Miraculously, the demon keeps talking, words hissing between its teeth. “Mine’s Anthony, if you were wondering. ‘S from Latin. _Antonius_. Means ‘priceless,’ ‘worthy of praise.’” 

_Let my prayer be set before you like incense; let the lifting up of my hands be like the evening sacrifice_.

The cramp finally releases the demon from its grip. It swears softly as its muscles unclench, sagging boneless in the chair. If it weren’t for the heavy metal bounds, the demon would probably melt onto the floor. The way its head tilts heavenward, mouth slack, brow crowned with filth, reminds you disturbingly of the chapel’s crucifix. 

“Big drinker, me,” it gasps, still catching its breath. Its pronunciation is clearer, tone bright and conversational, as if the two of you were chatting in a pub, or perhaps strangers sharing a bench seat on a train, forced to make pleasantries as the dark countryside flashed past the window. “Got started on it early. Always been a bit of a fuckup. Never learned how to shut my mouth and go with the program. Got on in the wrong crowd. Mum tossed me out and I thought, ‘Fuck me, fuck this, and fuck you if you think I’m going to come crawling back on my belly, begging for forgiveness.’”

The demon tilts its head back at you. Smiles, as if it’s just told a joke you’re supposed to know the punchline for. Your palms ache where the hard edges of your order’s symbol dig into the tender flesh. 

_Set a guard, O Lord, before my mouth,_ you think forcefully. _Keep watch over the door of my lips._

The hard knot of the demon’s throat bobs as it swallows, licks its lips. 

“There’s these steps you’re supposed to do, when you quit. Submitting yourself to a higher authority is one of them. Third step, maybe? Second? There’s an awful lot of ‘em. More steps than anything has a right to, if you ask me.”

_Incline not my heart to any evil thing, to practice wicked works with those who are evildoers..._

“Anyway. ’S not the first step, that’s what matters. First step is admitting you have a problem. That’s supposed to be the hardest one. Make all the other ones _easy_.” 

It curls its lip mockingly. The way its flaming eyes meet your own, its as if the demon is expecting some sort of understanding, or even camaraderie. 

You stumble in your mental recitation. Lose your place. 

The demon hums, seeming to take your distraction for agreement. Its burning gaze at last releases you, pupils drifting to a far, dark corner. For a long, blessed moment, the demon is silent.

“I used to be big on church, believe it or not. Not like, in the _choir_ or anything. But…” It shrugs, mangled fingers twitching vaguely. It must hurt, bent and broken as they are. It must be absolutely excruciating. 

You do your best to ignore the demon, but the words do not pass in and out as they should. They linger in your ears, make long, thin cuts through your brain. 

“My wife says I’ve got a right to be angry. Says it like she _understands_. Real fucking riot, that. She’s one of those people that just clings harder to faith, the worse things get. It’s just…” 

The demon’s voice trails off. In the silence that follows, another line of the Psalm comes back to you. You cling to it like a life raft.

_Let a righteous man strike me—it is a kindness; let him rebuke me—it is oil for my head…_

“I love her. I love her so _much_ , I’d… She’s _everything_. She’s an _angel,_ real and proper _._ If there’s any higher power worth submitting to on this blessed fucking rock, it’s _her_.”

_My prayer is ever against the deeds of the wicked; their rulers will be thrown down from the cliffs._

“But the way she looks at me, sometimes... She loves me. I _know_ she—”

_In you I take refuge, Sovereign Lord. Do not give me over to death._

“But it’s like I’m something that needs to be _pitied_. Like if she coddles me for long enough, I’ll come to right in the end.”

_Keep me from the traps set by evildoers, the snares they have laid for me_

You close your eyes. It does not help. You can feel the heat of the demon’s fiery stare burning deep, deep, into your smallest, most shameful places. 

_Let the wicked fall into their own nets, while I—_

“But some things you can’t undo, right? Some sins you can’t absolve. No matter how much you repent.”

_While I…_

“Demons can’t repent,” you say, the words slipping past your lips before you can catch them.

“Yeah,” the demon sighs, a low, tired hiss nearly lost in the gutter of the candles. “Yeah, ‘spose they can’t.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Do you know what they did with my dog?”

You drag your hands roughly across your face and consider, not for the first time tonight, whether you could throw your holy symbol hard enough to bury one of its sharp corners into the demon’s throat. 

It’s been _hours_ and the demon won’t. Shut. _Up_. First it was a rather saccharine description of the garden where it supposedly met its wife. Then a disturbingly tawdry ode to her favorite cardigan, a pale, shapeless thing with a sloping collar that begged to have fingers slipped just-so into the space where it lay across her neck. Their favorite bench in the park (at the base of a shade tree with full view of the duck pond), their mutual distrust of horses (just smart enough not to be trusted), the last play they saw (an atrocious production of _The Tempest_ , completely butchered the allegory of the forth act play-within-a-play, not that the people seated around them had appreciated the live commentary).

Halfway through the demon’s meandering recounting of a long-standing theological dispute between the two of them about the nature of free will, the details of which were somehow both too technical and too petty for you to keep track of, you’d at last understood the true meaning of Mother Superior’s warning. 

“I told you about her, right? Must’ve done, I was walking her—”

“Shut up.”

“—when they took me. Down Ebury Street. There’s a little—”

“Shut up.”

“—bakery there, tries to pass itself off as French. Can’t get the glaze right on their croissants but the girl behind the counter always slips Tartan an extra biscuit when she thinks I’m not looking.” 

“Shut _up_.”

“That’s her name, Tartan. She’s a corgi mix. Six years old, we’ve had her from a puppy. Did they tell you what happened to her? She pulls at the lead, probably ran out into the road. Unless they took her, too?” The ragged voice rises, as if in hope. “She’s so sweet. Too sweet for her own good. Trusts anyone who’ll give her a treat and a pat on the—”

“Shut _up_!” The words rattle through your chest, along the stone walls of the room. You want to scream. Your tightly-balled fists strike at your thighs over and over. “Shut up shut up SHUT _UP!!!_ ” 

Your throat aches. It is very hard to breathe. The hot air makes so much noise as it passes in and out of your clenched teeth that it’s a while before you notice it.

Silence.

Sudden, blessed silence. So total, so encompassing, that it seems to echo through your soul.

You sob in relief and pray that the demon will at last learn the virtue of quiet.

It does. For a little while, anyway.

The sound is low, like it’s trying to keep it muffled. Like it’s trying it’s very hardest to obey. It makes you think of babies—or things shaped like babies—left in baskets beneath shadowy ferns far from the safety of the forest path. 

It’s a sound worse than silence, somehow. 

“She’s a good girl,” it whimpers. “She’s such a good girl…”

On your little stool in the corner, you pull at your wimple until all you can see of the room is a ring of white fabric around a pinprick of dark and _howl_. 

**

You are calmer, some hours later. All your doubts reasoned out, assuaged. It had taken much prayer. Much prayer, and more wordless shouting than you care to recall. Your insides are raw and hollow with exhaustion.

Mother Superior’s absence come dawn is no longer a surprise. Sister Poppy takes her solitary post without so much as a glance in your direction, but that’s fine. There’s no need for talking, really. Talking requires listening, and listening only brings you trouble. 

If Mother Superior were here, she’d cup her cool, wrinkled hands over your hot ears and sternly remind you of your duties. You hope she is well. The timing of this illness is concerning. Perhaps you should visit her, if only to sink to your knees beside the white linens of her sickbed and pour out all of your most recent sins, buttress your resolve with the unyielding iron of her judgement. 

“Did you hear?” whispers Sister Marie, the scandal in her hushed tone echoing loudly off of the blinding bath tile. “About Sister Clare and Sister Ira?”

You shake your head mutely and keep your gaze fixed on your reflection. You did not hear. You do not want to hear. It is not your duty to—

You are standing in your little room, nude and shivering. You do not remember undressing. The walk from the hall bath. The worn cotton of your nightgown scratches rough against your skin as you pull it over your head. The sky beyond your window is grey with coming dawn.

You sleep. You dream of your grandfather, jaundice yellow in his narrow hospice bed, belly swollen and ugly beneath the white cotton sheet. Of a little dog, running in a far field of high grass. Of a mirror that shows no reflection no matter how hard you press against the glass. 

**

At evening meal, Sister Livia takes Mother Superior’s empty seat and calmly leads the pre-meal invocation. 

“Blessed are we who follow the one who taught us to pray,” she intones. “Whose power comes from God above. Driver of devils, empowered by God, who when unjustly accused of devilry spoke to his accusers, saying, ‘Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters.’”

“ _Blessed are we who hear the word of God and keep it_ ,” you speak as one with your sisters. “ _Let our souls be arid places where impure things may not find rest_.”

“Amen.”

“ _Amen_.” 

There is no meal-time talk, under Sister Livia’s strict watch. Even the usual gossip in the washroom is mercifully silenced, as if the whole of the convent has been smothered under a heavy blanket. In its own way, it is comforting. A reminder of the order as it once was, before Mother Superior informed you of your dreadful part in the Great Plan. 

You are numb as you descend into the basement and pass through the secret door. It is louder, here, but there is an order to it, a structure to the chanting, the whispers, that settles resolute into your bones. 

What you are doing has a purpose. What you are doing is right. 

How can such a thing be wrong, when taken up by so many who are so holy?

Sisters Clare and Ira are waiting behind the door, hand in hand. Their faces are clear, unmarred by tears, the creases framing their mouths resolute. Sister Clare’s mouth opens. Her coral lips form familiar, once treasured shapes. You keep your neck stiff, your gaze distant. Her words pass in and out, unheard.

Not so, the heavy clunk of the door as it shuts behind them. You take your seat on the stool. Fix your gaze to the golden tips of the candles. At the center of the circle, the demon twists slowly in its chair, limbs rigid, skin fever-flush, yellow eyes unfocused, unblinking. Its mouth moves faintly. You think about saints, caught in divine ecstasy. The cloven-tongued flames of Pentecost.

Your face is wet. 

You pay it no mind. 

**

You don’t have time to dream, that final day, before you are roughly shaken awake.

“ _Wake up!_ ” hisses a voice breathless with panic. Hands strong as irons drag you upright, tear the meager blindfold from your eyes. It is very bright in your little room. You blink stupidly at the white beams of sunlight haloing your curtains. It is a long, muddled moment before you recognize the midmorning sun.

Not even a week since you saw it last. It feels like a lifetime. Or six millennia of lifetimes. Or—

Cold air prickles your skin as Sister Marie pulls the covers all the way back. Your limbs are damp beneath your nightgown, sweat sticking the fabric to the small of your back, the fold of skin beneath your breastbone. “Oh, hurry, hurry! Something _terrible_ has—”

There is no time, seemingly, to dress. Sister Marie bullies you out the door before you can so much as grab your dressing gown or tie up your hair. 

“Fools, we were all such _fools_! Why we _ever_ thought we could—”

Her grip on your wrist is painfully tight as she pulls you down the hall, past a hurried pair of Sisters carrying clean towels and a silver tray with a steaming pot of tea deeper into the convent. You blink at them owlishly, eyes still half-gummed with sleep, as they make the sharp turn toward Mother Superior’s quarters, only to be replaced by another grim-faced Sister quick-marching an armful of red-stained linens in the opposite direction. Your gut clenches.

“Mother Superior!” you gasp, stumbling as you’re roughly tugged down the stairs to the main level. “Was she attacked?” Perhaps she has been feeling better, has slipped back into the chamber to question the demon after you’ve left for the day. If Sister Poppy let the candles go out… “The demon! Did it—?”

“What?” Sister Marie glances at you in confusion, and with a jolt you note the dark red lines, like claw marks, criss-crossing her panicked face. It’s _Poppy_. She’s—"

A noise from below, loud enough that it vibrates through the floorboards and up through the soles of your bare feet. An unending, inhuman _scream_ of rage and frustration. The sound of it shoots like ice straight down your spine, so undeniably hellish that it’s a moment before you recognize it as human. 

“The demon has corrupted her,” Sister Marie hisses, squeezing your wrist so tightly that the bones grind. “Sisters Clare and Ira as well. Abandoned the order, they have, run off some time in the night. _Oh!_ We should have listed to Sister Livia at the _beginning_!”

Down, down, down, into the basement dark. It’s all you can do to keep your footing on the rough stair, every instinct in you telling you to _run_ from that horrible sound. A dozen of your Sisters are huddled at the base of the stair, as far away from the open antechamber door as they can manage, hands tight against their ears as they press together in fright. 

There are words in the screaming, now.

Horrible, dreadful words. 

“Damn you, damn you! You were supposed to give me _power_! You were supposed—!"

A dark, massive shape writhes and thrashes across the antechamber floor. It’s difficult to pick out the individual bodies making up the monster. 

“You _bastard!_ You fucking _worm!_ Why won’t you _tell_ me?! Why, _whyyyyy?_ ”

“Hold still, child!” grunts a harsh, faceless voice. A leg thrashes out from the center of the beast, then an arm ending in clawed, clutching fingers. 

“Master!” Sister Poppy sobs. “ _Master!_ Why have you forsaken me?!”

You have never seen a full exorcism, not a _real_ one, anyways. The ones on film never looked this much like a pub brawl. Someone pushes past you, carrying a shallow silver bowl sloshing with water. Have a moment after you recognize the baptismal basin, its contents are tossed it over the writhing mass of bodies. Sister Poppy screams as if burnt. 

It’s a wretched, pitiful sight. You try to look away, but there are very few places to look in this room that aren’t wretched.

At the far end of the antechamber, the great iron door stands open and dark, yawning wide as the gates of hell. 

“Sister Maybeth, she’s here, she’s here!” You’re steered around the fight to where Sister Maybeth is slumped heavily against the stone wall, her lip bloodied and robes unnervingly out of place.

“Oh, thank Heaven.” She reaches out to you, her hands smeared with blood. You try to shy away but she grips you tightly by the shoulders, pulling you close. “The Lord provides most when it is needed.”

You tense, expecting Sister Jessamine to embrace you fully, but instead she gestures over your shoulder. A book is thrust into your arms, a heavy thing bound in blister-black leather. You blink at it stupidly.

“You will have to fix the sigils. There should be enough of them left for you to trace, but I’ve marked the pages in case—”

It registers, at last, what exactly you are holding.

“I can’t re-summon a _demon_ ,” you whisper, horrified.

“You don’t have to,” Sister Maybeth soothes. “It’s still bound. At least…” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head, forces her lips into the pantomime of a smile.

You try to pull away, but her hands are wrapped too tightly around your shoulders for escape. 

“Dear Sister, _please_.” 

You shake your head. Squeeze your eyes shut. 

“You _must._ You’re the only one who can.” 

The shouting at the other end of the chamber grows louder, more foul. A multitude of voices chimed together in profanities that make your skin crawl. 

Finally, reluctantly, you nod. At last, Sister Jessamine pulls you close, but the embrace and the hard-lipped kiss pressed to your forehead feel cold, robotic, as if done of duty more than empathy. You think of Judas, of how the Lord was kissed before He went to His death. 

“Be brave, Dear Sister. This is a war for all our souls. We are counting on you to hold the line.”

“How long?” It’s a struggle to force the words from your lips.

“Not long,” she answers. Too quick, too reassuring. It is a lie, and the both of you know it. “Sister Livia is on her way. She’ll know what to do.”

“Mother Superior?”

“ _Sister Livia_ ,” she repeats, “will _know_.” 

You nod again, eyes still closed. What else is there to do? 

Hands guide you to the threshold of the door, thrust you inside. You stumble, but no hands are on the other side, waiting to catch you.

You are alone.

Alone, except for…

“I only ever wanted to _serve_!” screams the thing that was once your Sister. 

The door clangs shut behind you with the finality of a funeral bell. 


End file.
